


Together Like

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Irish Language, St. Patrick's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-11-23 07:25:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18148868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: 'Cara macree. It meanspal of my heart.'





	Together Like

**Author's Note:**

> Happy (belated) St. Patrick's Day. Here's a fic.
> 
> Inspiration for this fic comes from the Irish novel by Jamie O'Neill 'At Swim, Two Boys,' in which this phrase is continually used as an endearment between the two male protagonists. Truly recommend; excellent reading. No doubt that this isn't a new idea, but I wanted to try it out here. I love domestic fics.

 

* * *

_‘Cara macree,’_ Sherlock pronounces the words in perfect Irish inflection, sweeping his bow with a gentle swoosh. ‘It means _pal of my heart.’_ He says it _just_ on the side of serious, though the exaggerated way he raises his eyes to the ceiling suggests something else.

It makes John smile, slumped as he is in his chair after a hard day’s case. The fire is on, Rosie’s fast asleep upstairs, there is a dollop of whiskey in two glasses _(limited;_ John won’t take any chances) and out there in London, scores of people are partying with green flags, hats and shamrocks. For John, who’s spent the whole day ahead of the budding celebrations chasing a violent Scottish pyromaniac up and down Chiswick, it’s almost welcoming; the knowledge that another criminal is safely behind bars and London can relax with one less murderer to worry about.

It’s not enough – there will be violence out there at some point, punches thrown, someone will be skulking somewhere – but it’s _something._

‘Pal of my heart,’ he repeats slowly, watching Sherlock move around, arrange his sheet music; a memory scratches at the back of his head, something Harry said maybe, or a comment from the army, somebody somewhere's reading material. ‘It’s from... that book, isn’t it? Jamie O’Neill?’

‘Is it?’ Sherlock asks, a little _too_ innocently, his eyes firmly on the sheets on the music-stand, settling his violin on his shoulder, plucking a few strings.

John’s fairly sure he knows what’s coming. He’s proven right a few seconds later when Sherlock sets off into a lively Irish jig, one that reminds him of being in Dublin the day before the Irene Adler case transpired, a medical conference he could not miss. He had watched violinists on the streets and thought they were elementary compared to Sherlock. It had made him feel, _just_ for a moment, strangely homesick.

If they were on the streets of London right now, he would happily be throwing a five-pound note into the open violin case. He nods along to the music, vaguely recognises the tune, smacks his lips around his whiskey glass appreciatively, lets it soak into his bones, lets himself just _exist_ in the moment (something he’s been working on with Ella; something to soothe his ever-ready blood, his ever-rattling body. He’s realising the appeal). Leans forward in his chair, watching Sherlock’s concentration, the way he loses himself, even given the faster rhythms that contrast to his usual preference for Bach. Imagines him in shamrocks, not entirely out of place in a band somewhere out in the city, or in Belfast or Dublin, even if his notes always have that slightly posh edge to them as an extension of the man himself.

‘It’s true, you know,’ John murmurs right on the heel of the music ending, even before he knew he was going to say it. Sherlock, turning the sheets over and apparently focused on giving John his own personal concert (provided he manages not to wake Rosie) throws a raised eyebrow in his direction. ‘Cara… _that.’_

 _‘Macree,’_ Sherlock corrects and John smirks into his glass.

‘Yeah, that. You are.’ He shrugs, alcohol and sudden, unaccountable shyness taking over, making words almost impossible. ‘Always have been, really.’

 _‘We both know that’s not quite true.’_ Another Irish accent, the real deal, cold and concise, facing down a younger them, a younger Sherlock, taunting and testing him with the very fabric of their growing friendship, incredibly fragile then and utterly unshakeable now.

Odd, but John had almost wanted to _thank_ that twisty bastard – who had taken to torturing them long into his grave – for demonstrating that the violin-playing, selectively-mute, wall-shooting lunatic whom he had chosen to room with _did_ actually care about him and his wellbeing.

Even if it had meant wearing the staggering weight of an explosive vest. Even if it meant being forced, for some of the longest minutes of his life (there were other things: the immediate aftermath of getting shot, for instance; Mary, her body still and prone and _lifeless_ in his arms; standing helplessly at the foot of Bart’s, trying to talk Sherlock down, ultimately unsuccessfully) to carry a lie.

Even if it had frightened Sherlock.

Sherlock pauses and John holds the whiskey out, feeling that alcohol should suffice in place of words just then; tries not to jump as Sherlock sweeps his bow back down in a clear bid to seem impressive and marches back to claim it. He stands over John, taking two large sips and then promptly drops down into his chair, propping his violin down below when usually it would go back into his case, eyeing him intently.

John merely leans forward in his chair, letting himself be looked at; after a moment, he reaches across to trace the outline of Sherlock’s face with his left hand, absent-mindedly pushing back strands of his dark hair. Drops his hand to grasp Sherlock’s wrist, feeling the very real beat of his pulse under his fingers, staring hard at the slightly gap between their feet. (Sherlock is wearing mismatching socks).

Then Sherlock’s hand flips over, takes John’s (bloody large hands, always swamping his own - but it’s _nice,_ all the same); rubs the fingers with his thumb, his gaze so utterly _gentle_ and making John feel safer in that instant than many things or even many people in his life have done. He thinks of the things that Sherlock’s poor heart has endured – literally _and_ emotionally – and squeezes his palm.

‘You’ve always had one,’ he tells him softly, thinking of Rosie, of Mary, of Molly and Archie and Mrs Hudson, even Mycroft and Lestrade. Of fire and priorities, of rooftops and ultimatums, of wedding cake and the constant, accepted throwing of rattles. ‘I’m just the lucky bugger who got to see it first. Or at least, the first in a long time.’ 

He expects sarcasm, snappishness, _don't be ridiculous John,_ but Sherlock simply _beams,_ although it comes with a resigned-looking shrug that clearly states _guilty as charged_ and makes him seem caught out just as much as he is happy. John finds himself wondering what the Sherlock from 2010 would think if he could meet the Sherlock that sits opposite him now, the product of nearly a decade's growth. Would he be ashamed? Disgusted, maybe; in denial that this was his future, that he, the egotistical man-child/occasional robot could be the same as the unbelievably brave, incredibly _good_ man he would become? Accuse this version of himself of elaborating some sort of hoax? (Yes, okay, even with the time-travel thing, John corrects himself, but then this is purely theoretical). 

Or would he _hope_ , instead? 

A great mind _and_ a great heart, John considers and with that thought, props himself forward, holding out his arms and Sherlock sinks into them, the two forming a human-bridge in the middle of their lounge. Outside, someone shouts something; a cacophony of noise, happy shrieks that come from early drinking. Craning his head on Sherlock's shoulder, John is fairly sure he can hear Mrs Turner next door playing the sound of bagpipes (wait, _what?)_ A door opening and closing down below; Mrs Hudson bustling about. 

‘You’ve _absolutely_ read that book, haven’t you?’ he asks after a moment of shared silence, letting the world roll around outside their four walls.

‘Yep,’ Sherlock pops the ‘p’ over his shoulder; he sounds incredibly pleased with himself. _Sherlock Holmes, the literary guru._ ‘It’s on the shelf. You’re welcome to borrow it, if you wish.’

‘Thought so. Clever bastard.’ John says it with a ruffle to Sherlock's curls, shuts his eyes against his sleeve.

‘ _Cara macree,’_ he murmurs, a soft hush of a thing over the crackle of the fire. It mirrors the tone of Sherlock’s voice when he responds a second later: 

 _‘Cara macree,_ John.’

*


End file.
